


A Moste Peculiar Potion

by Chthonia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Humor, Multi, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chthonia/pseuds/Chthonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Elixir of Ecstasy: Every draught delivers an hour of pure pleasure.</i>  The potion promises to be one of the more - interesting - Christmas gifts Hermione has received.  But Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products do not always behave as expected...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moste Peculiar Potion

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t want to spoil any surprises, but the main character is a woman so if you’re looking for M/M slash, look elsewhere. Do be prepared for cliché, anti-cliché and some hopefully-not-too-lame attempts at humour. Oh, and a dash of BDSM.
> 
> Written for mooselet for the 2005 [harry_holidays challenge](http://harry-holidays.livejournal.com/9680.html).
> 
>  

_I need a place to... I mean I want, yes I definitely_ do _want a private room to, erm..._

Hermione Granger was not used to being lost for words.

_I need a room where I can-_

This was ridiculous. The last couple of times she’d been up here, some first-year girls had been hanging about and she’d had to walk straight on past. Now that she finally had the place to herself, she _had_ to go through with it.

She looked furtively up and down the corridor. It was still empty. She glanced at the tapestry beside her - but Barnabas the Barmy was nowhere in sight, and it wasn’t as if trolls could read, tutus or no tutus.

Smiling sheepishly, she reached into her bag for the small box, still half-wrapped in bright green paper emblazoned with winking Santas, every one of which was holding a sign flashing out the words _‘From Ginny with love xxx’_.

It was now or never.

She began to pace.

_Okay. I need a room where I can do Ginny’s ‘Elixir of Ecstasy’ in peace... I need a room where I can do Ginny’s ‘Elixir of Ecstasy’ in peace... I need-_

But the Room of Requirement had revealed itself, and Hermione hurried through the door before she could have second thoughts.

The room was very... pink. More pink than Hermione could normally stand, if she was honest, but then she wouldn’t normally indulge in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products either. She hoped Ginny hadn’t mentioned this particular Christmas gift to Harry or Ron.

A white silk night-dress hung next to a small four-poster bed that was swathed in pale pink: sheer shimmering drapes, a cosy counterpane and crisp cotton sheets turned invitingly down. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, its flickering flames reflected in a crystal goblet on the bedside table.

_Might as well enter into the spirit of it_ , Hermione thought to herself. She locked the door behind her, pulled off her robe and laid it over a white wrought-iron chair that obligingly materialised to receive it. Seconds later the rest of her clothes had followed, and she stretched, revelling in the warmth of the fire on her bare skin and the softness of the sheepskin rug between her bare toes.

The silk night-dress was, in contrast, cool, and made her skin tingle in a way that was... really not unpleasant at all.

Hermione grinned. Feeling defiantly decadent, she arranged herself comfortably in the bed and pulled off the wrapping on the little box.

_Weasleys’ Patented Elixir of Ecstasy_ , she read. _Every draught delivers an hour of pure pleasure, brewed for you exclusively by Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. For a fantastic fantasy you will never forget, drink whole dose at once while concentrating on the subject you desire. (Not for sale to underage wizards. Side effects include complete obliviousness to surroundings. Do not Apparate for three hours after taking. Imperturbable Charms advised.)_

Inside the box was a very small vial. She poured its cobalt-coloured contents into the crystal goblet.

There wasn’t much potion - drinking it in one mouthful wasn’t going to be a problem. It was the next instruction that Hermione was unsure about. When she’d used the Daydream Charm the twins had given her the day they’d visited the shop, she’d spent a very enjoyable half-hour dreaming about Ron. And much good _that_ had done. When it came down to it, Ron wasn’t very, well, romantic. This time she was going to have a fantasy that was _interesting_.

For a moment she toyed with the notion of watching giant hairy spiders crawl out from Lavender’s ears just as she and Ron were at their most intertwined. But why waste a good fantasy focusing on _him_? She could do something that would annoy him even more...

She raised the goblet and drank the potion down, thinking as intently as she could about Viktor Krum.

“Hermione,” he murmured, plucking the goblet from her fingers. “I told you I vould return. “And you haf vaited for me.”

“Hello, Viktor,” she said, feeling suddenly rather silly in her slinky night-gown.

Viktor had no such qualms. He swept his ermine-lined cloak from his shoulders and flung it onto the chair, then knelt on one knee beside the bed and kissed her hand. And her wrist. And her forearm. And the crook of her elbow (which was rather more ticklish than, well, anything else). And-

Hermione pulled her arm away.

“I haf offended you!” he cried, stricken.

“No, no!” It was just that... wasn’t romance supposed to feel a little more, well, romantic?

“Forgive me!” He laid a single red rose on her pillow and bent to kiss her cheek.

She’d forgotten how... emotional Viktor could be. Really, given how this was _her_ fantasy, it ought to be less irritating. But it wasn’t.

Maybe if she hurried things along a little...

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling up at him. “It really is lovely to see you.”

And she raised her head... and their lips met... and parted.

Viktor looked down, hesitant. “Do... do you vish me to join you, Hermyowninny?”

_Anything’s better than listening to you mangle my name..._

She reached up, wound her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Once more their lips met. And stayed met. And stayed met. And-

And parted, thankfully. Breathing through one’s nose was only comfortable for so long.

His eyes gazed into hers, deep pools of soulful she-knew-not-what.

“Do you like it, ven I kiss you this way?” he asked, twisting his heavy silver ring round his finger. “Or vould you prefer it if I...” He pulled down the counterpane and traced the outline of her breast through the cotton sheet.

_Mmm._ Now that was more like it.

Hermione wriggled happily.

“Or vould you like me to kiss you here?” She sucked in a breath as he touched her throat. “Or here?” he said, and running his finger round her left ear. “Or ”

_Oh, just get_ on _with it!_

He bit his lip. “Or do you prefer me to kiss the back of your beautiful neck? I could- Do you like playing spoons, Hermiown?”

She’d forgotten his dog-like eagerness to please - or rather, how downright annoying it was. Really, she wanted someone who was experienced enough to be confident in himself, even to be a little forceful-

“We can be forceful!” came an all-too-familiar voice from the foot of the bed.

“Very forceful!” echoed its twin.

Hermione sat bolt upright in horror. There was no sign of Viktor. Instead, two ginger heads peered around the posts at the foot of the bed.

“No!” she cried, pulling the counterpane up to her neck.

“Oh, but you don’t really mean that, do you Hermione?” said George, sidling up the side of the bed.

“No- I mean yes, I certainly do mean it!”

The twins looked at each other with identical downcast expressions, then turned on Hermione with identical beaming smiles.

“Now, Hermione, when we promise an hour of pure pleasure-”

“-an hour of pure pleasure is exactly what we deliver! After all, we aim to please-”

“-and our pleasure-seeking missiles always meet their targets!”

“So Angelina tells me,” muttered Hermione.

“Exactly,” said the twins.

“So you see,” said Fred, prowling up the other side of the bed, “there’s really nothing-”

Hermione scrambled out of the bed, clutching the counterpane around her, and scuttled to the opposite side of the room.

“Erm... do you include yourselves in all your fantasy potions?” she asked, backing against the wall.

“Only for certain special customers,” said Fred, climbing over the bed towards her.

“After all, we need to keep an eye on-”

“Look,” said Hermione. “Please don’t take this the wrong way - I mean, you can be very nice when you’re not being really annoying - but I’ve _really_ never thought of you like that.”

“Not even when I gave you my SuperCharmed rubber wand?” asked George, looking crestfallen.

“No.”

“Not even when I was playing with your ginger pussy?”

_“No.”_

“Oh,” said George.

“Oh,” said Fred.

“Well, brother mine,” said George. “It looks like we need to reapply our talents.”

“Yes, Hermione, you needn’t worry,” said Fred, giving her a sweeping bow. “Never let it be said that we don’t behave like perfect gentlemen.”

‘Gentlemen’ was not generally the first description that sprang to Hermione’s mind when she thought about the twins, but she decided it was as well to be gracious.

“Thanks,” she said. “It’s nothing personal, honestly. It’s just that I normally go for people who are a little more, well, mature.”

Fred looked at George.

George looked at Fred.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Fred to George, a wicked grin spreading over his face.

“I think I may be thinking what you’re thinking,” replied George with an even wickeder grin.

“Out!” shouted Hermione. This was supposed to be _her_ fantasy. It was time to take control.

“Well, Hermione, we-” began Fred.

“Out!” she shrieked. “Out! Out!”

“Out!” ordered a deeper voice, as the door to the room crashed open.

The twins scarpered, leaving Hermione face to face with... Professor Snape.

“So,” he spat, striding across the room towards her. “It’s not sufficient for you to parade your know-it-all arrogance in class - you also think yourself above the rules you, as a prefect, are supposed to enforce!”

Hermione thought frantically for a plausible explanation, but none presented itself. Why hadn’t the door stayed locked? And why, oh why, hadn’t she taken the potion in the safety of her own room?

Snape peered at the empty vial.

“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, smiling nastily, “this is a Weasleys’ product. I’m sure you’re aware, Miss Granger, that such substances are not permitted in the school?”

“Yes, Professor.” Hermione hung her head. Did this mean they wouldn’t let her carry on as a prefect? Certainly she’d no chance of becoming Head Girl now.

“I’m sure a suitable penalty will be decided in due course,” said Snape. “But meanwhile we need to address your reasons for being out of bed at such an hour.”

Hermione waited. Did he have to take so much pleasure in dragging this out?

“So,” he said, “you’d better get back into bed, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, Professor.”

Keeping the counterpane determinedly between herself and Snape, she sidled towards the chair where her robe was waiting. The sooner she got out of here...

“I don’t think you were listening, Miss Granger.”

Hermione looked up, warily. Snape was pointing to the pink-draped bed from which she had so rapidly exited a few minutes previously.

“Er... right.” She backed up to the mattress and sat down. Snape flicked his wand at the door, which slammed shut.

This evening was getting stranger by the second.

He leant on the back of the chair, drumming his long white fingers on the metal.

“On second thoughts,” he said, “come here.”

She stood up, winding a sheet around her.

“That will not be necessary.” He tipped her clothes onto the floor and sat down.

Hermione dropped the sheet, blushing as he swept his sneering gaze from her head to her toes. This was not the Professor Snape they knew and loathed. This was-

But it couldn’t be because of the Elixir! She did _not_ fantasise about Professor Snape!

Really she didn’t.

Not once.

When this was over, she was going to kill Fred and George.

He seized her wrist and dragged her over his knees, putting one heavy arm across her shoulder-blades so she couldn’t lift her head.

_Oh no no no._ She _definitely_ had never dreamed about this, whatever joking comments she might have giggled over in the girls’ dormitory...

“Finally, Miss Granger,” growled Professor Snape as he pulled up her night-gown to expose her bare buttocks. “I’ve been wanting to do this for _years_.”

She waited, glad her face was buried in the folds of his robe so he could not see her blush. And so that she could breathe in the manly scent of him...

Hang on. Since when had she ever found his greasy hair and body odour remotely desirable?

Though on second thoughts, he really did smell less bad than usual. _Eau de stale potion and newt’s brain_ had been replaced by something like... sandalwood?

_“OW!”_

“Oh, do be quiet,” he muttered, raising his hand for another slap.

She gasped as it fell. It _hurt_. She’d never expected it to hurt so much.

At least, she wouldn’t have if she’d ever thought about it.

She suppressed a whimper as he spanked her for a third time. She could feel her skin tingling, almost as if _waiting_ for his hand to make contact again - but it _hurt..._

She couldn’t help wriggling in a vain attempt to avoid the worst.

Professor Snape paused, his hand poised. “I’m warning you...”

She dug her nails into her palms as he continued, trying not to move or to make a sound against the throbbing pain. She could feel the heat now, the red glow seeping down, down... so much deeper than her and her black-robed Professor, alone and unseen in this secret room. The visible hand, the oh-so-physical punishment of her body were his, oh yes, but beyond that the invisible hand of a barely-remembered childhood was chastising her soul, suffusing the most hidden corners of her being with shame that burned through all her layers of learning and maturity and independence, flinging her back to the impotence of a helpless child...

But the hand reaching _down_ was wholly new, spreading her legs just enough to reach the softer skin on her inner thighs...

She squirmed at the first slap, yelped at the second and the third drove away all thoughts of silent submission. She pushed herself up - but he bore down on her shoulders to prevent her escape, rendering all her struggling and kicking and screaming fruitless as he proved that she had no choice.

At last she subsided. And at last the spanking ceased. She hung over his knees, limp as a rag doll.

“I suggest you get up,” he said. “Unless you want me to continue?”

She stood, a little unsteady, her eyes fixed on the floor. _That... she... he..._ She could hardly even think: _looking_ was out of the question.

“Lost for words, Miss Granger? Clearly I should have tried this a long time ago.”

He pushed her towards the bed, flinging the covers away. She lay face-down on the bare mattress, her head buried in her hands, waiting.

She heard the _clunk_ of something being placed on the bedside table. She didn’t look.

“We have yet to address your inability to stay in bed,” said Professor Snape silkily. “Luckily, Argus keeps his chains well oiled.”

And now she did look, watching with horrified fascination as he lifted the gleaming shackles from their small chest. She’d always wondered... well, no. She hadn’t, really she hadn’t...

She didn’t resist as he lifted her right hand and secured the iron band round her wrist. Rigid, immovable... he fastened the other end of the chain to the bedpost. The click of the lock sent a shiver down her spine.

All too slowly, he moved around the bed, his cool, deliberate fingers fixing the chains to right ankle, then her left ankle, and finally stretching her left wrist towards the final bedpost. She pulled on the chains and was rewarded by the _clink_ of inescapable steel.

“ _That_ should stop you sneaking around the castle, breaking into my private stores and meddling with things that are no business of yours,” said Snape. “I’ve half a mind to keep you here, just so I know where you are...”

Hermione froze. To be kept here, at the mercy of her most demanding Professor...

But no. The potion was supposed to wear off after an hour.

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He sat on the bed beside her and carefully pulled up her gown to display his handiwork. Hermione inched away, but the remorseless chains barred any thought of escape. She stared at the mattress as his fingers brushed over her skin. Her heart was beating fast as she waited, because there was nothing she could do except wait.

She could feel his hand between her legs now, stroking the oh-so-sensitive skin where he’d spanked her before. This touch did not hurt - no, oh _no_ - but still, it was almost more than she could bear. She tried to wriggle away, but he continued undaunted with his feather-light caress. She strained to squeeze her legs closed, but the shackles stretching her open ensured that her most hidden places remained vulnerable to him.

Not that he _was_ probing her most private places. Though if he could make her legs tingle like this, she couldn’t help wondering...

But it was her lower back he was exploring now, letting his fingers stray down onto her reddened buttocks, making her gasp as he ran his fingertips over the most sensitive skin at her waist, and up, up along her spine so that she arched her back and he reached under to brush her breasts - and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him, or to respond.

There was an unexpected freedom in that. But there was just one little thing...

“Er... Professor?” she asked, blushing at the title.

“What?”

“This one’s a little loose.” She shook her left wrist. The shackle there _was_ looser than the rest: she’d noticed her wrist start to slip through as she pulled on it, and it was rather, well, _distracting_ to think that she might, after all, be able to free a hand, to push his away.

“Miss Granger. You will _not_ criticise the way I conduct my lessons.” But he flicked his wand and the shackles tightened on her wrists as all four chains sprang taut. Hermione gasped. She couldn’t move her hands or feet at all now, and every limb was stretched out so much that she quivered with the strain.

Snape ignored her distress as he continued his exploration of her fettered body, making her shudder as he traced the lines of tension along her arms and legs, pinching gently where he sensed he could provoke a whimper, stroking gently down but never quite reaching that place between her legs that was radiating waves of heat that surely even he could feel.

Really, it wasn’t as if Professor Snape would have been her number one casting choice for Casanova, but really, she’d have thought someone who could do - _that_ - would know where to look.

At last she could stand it no longer.

“It’s further down,” she gasped. “Go lower... ”

“Haven’t you realised yet that it’s not up to you? _Silencio!_ ”

His fingers resumed their work. The only part of her she could move was her hips, and she jerked from side to side in a desperate attempt to lure his hand to where it was most needed. But he just moved even further away, tracing patterns down her legs and onto the soles of her feet.

She flung back her head in a soundless groan.

He’d stolen her power to escape or resist or complain, compelling her to float in pure response and leaving any will to resist to drown in that freedom. Oh, this _was_ Professor Snape, but not as she knew him.

She could almost get to like this version, if only he would put his fingers...

But the trouble was, she couldn’t _completely_ immerse herself - not when she knew she’d have to face him in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom the next day.

This was not a prudent thought.

“Well, well, well,” said a new voice. “What have we here, Severus?”

_No. It couldn’t be._

Hermione twisted her head to see the newcomer, but he was standing too far back. She pulled desperately on her chains, but they held her as inescapably motionless as when she’d wanted them to.

Something hard and cold prodded her where she’d suffered the hardest spanking.

“I see you’ve warmed her up nicely,” said the drawling voice that was at once familiar and not-familiar. “Off you go, now.”

The fingers fondling her feet disappeared.

And Hermione was left looking up into the sneering face of Lucius Malfoy.

No _way_.

If she had never fantasised about Severus Snape, she _certainly_ hadn’t fantasised about Draco Malfoy’s father.

(Well, there _had_ been that one time - or maybe two, but definitely no more than two - after he’d stared at her at the Quidditch World Cup as if he wanted to strip her to the bone, but after what had happened at the end of that year she had resolutely forbidden herself such thoughts. And she _had_ kept her resolution. Mostly.)

“So, here we have the famous Miss Granger,” he said, “half naked and spread-eagled across a four-poster bed. A clear demonstration of Severus’ usual lack of imagination. Or is this the wildest dream _you_ can come up with?”

It was lucky, she thought, that she couldn’t answer.

“Answer me, girl.” He slid the end of his cane under her cheek and twisted her head up towards him. “Is this what you like?”

_Or maybe not so lucky._

“Think yourself too special to speak to me, do you?”

She shook her head vigorously.

He ignored her. “You disappoint me, Miss Granger. Now I’ll have to go to the trouble of teaching you how to respond to your betters.”

But he looked anything but disappointed as he withdrew the cane and hung his cloak on an elaborate wrought-iron peg that had not been there before, and turned the wrought-iron handle of a cupboard that had _definitely_ not been there before...

“This one, I think,” he said.

He held up a thick black coil, and answered her frozen stare with a nod.

“You’ll want us to do this properly, I expect.”

Really, the Malfoy arrogance knew no bounds if he thought that she _wanted_...

He approached the bed and she frantically tried to roll away, squirming and kicking and straining at her bonds. He watched in silence until she subsided, sated with the thrilling knowledge that there was nothing she could do to stop him.

“Hmm,” he mused. “This might be more entertaining if you can move a little.” He touched his wand to each chain where it was locked to its bedpost. She heard the links slip past each other, lengthening the chains by a hand-width, and wriggled her limbs in relief.

There was still nothing she could do to stop him.

Slowly, Lucius Malfoy uncoiled his whip, silently showing her its weight, its balance, its gentle taper to where it split into six sinister tails.

She couldn’t take her eyes off it.

He laid the stock on her pillow, the length of it draped sinuously over her shackled arm and across her back. “Say hello, girl,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “You and She are about to become very intimately acquainted.”

It lay beside her like a dark serpent waiting to strike... Hermione gazed at it, mesmerised by its fine braided leather, and the scent of it...

And then she felt him trace the curve of her back down to-

She’d almost forgotten how exposed she was, with the gown pulled up over her reddened buttocks and her legs stretched apart by the unrelenting chains.

She lay motionless as his hand passed from silk to skin, tracking Snape’s handiwork then following her cleft down, pausing and pressing just enough to make her fully aware of his power to touch her wheresoever he might choose. And then for one glorious moment he brushed the place that Snape had so stubbornly avoided, and she pressed against his fingers - but they were gone.

Her cheeks burned with... what should have been shame.

He laughed. “Good,” he said, drawing one damp finger along her jaw. “I think you’re ready to appreciate Her now.”

Why couldn’t he just shut up and get on with it?

Not that she wanted him to, of course.

She wondered how much longer the potion would last.

He slid his hand up her spine, lifting the night-gown above her shoulders to that her back was bared to his gaze and his hand and his lash. And then he lifted the whip, trailing the ends across her shoulders... down her back... across her hips... along her legs... making her tremble in anticipation.

Then he lifted it clear, and still she quivered.

She groaned noiselessly as the first lash fell across her shoulders. She sighed at the second, embracing it, absorbing the force into herself. The third bit deeper and she jerked with the shock.

The fourth did not come.

She peered round. He crouched down beside her, the whip coiled in his fist.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She opened her mouth, and closed it. Even had she been able to speak, there would have been no words...

He smiled lazily, and stood.

And _then_ he struck, a lightning-flash across the top of her thighs where she was already so sore from the spanking that she would have screamed out if she could. She wrapped her hands around the chains imprisoning her arms, gripping as tight as she could to steady herself against the mounting pain of lash after lash on all the places Snape had prepared...

“Ready to stop yet?” he sneered. “Just say the word...”

But her voice was bound as surely as her body, just as in her unaided fantasies (not, of course, that she made a habit of fantasising about such things) she’d never been permitted to cry a halt to a whipping. But mere imagining couldn’t make her _want_ it to stop, couldn’t convey the awful reality that there was nothing erotic about this pain, only the deep dark seeping knowledge that he could and would do this to her, regardless of need for it to _stop_.

So the six strands fell again, and it was past bearing. And she flung herself aside, but _She_ found her prey easily no matter how Hermione writhed and squirmed, and it had to be borne, had to, had to, had to...

Until _he_ chose to put down the whip, letting it splay across her torso so that it accented the marks of its artistry.

And suddenly she was free of the chains. Still she waited for him to release her.

He gathered up the whip, watching her flinch as it slithered across her skin. She coughed, as silently as she had screamed.

He raised his eyebrows. “Silencing Charm?”

She nodded.

He smirked. “How... convenient.”

He turned away, returning his whip to its cupboard. “Well, get up,” he said, glancing at her. “We haven’t got all night.”

_Finally, he realised._

But what was he going to do now? She didn’t want to find out, but she wanted to know.

Well, if need be, it seemed that she could get rid of him by thinking of someone she would prefer...

Not, of course, that declining to do so for the moment meant that she _wanted_ this. After all, she had to take advantage of any opportunity to learn more about her enemies, didn’t she?

She slid across the bed on her stomach, felt for the floor and stood up. He pointed at the chair. She stood with her back to it, facing him, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to sit on the welts he’d raised, to which even the touch of silk was stinging agony.

He paced around her, then raised his cane so that its silver head lay cold against her throat.

“Step back.”

She inched backwards, but the night-gown was too long and too tight to let her straddle the chair. He jerked his cane down. The silver snake-fangs scythed through the silk and the torn gown whispered down her back to pool at her feet.

If a scene like this had ever disturbed Hermione’s twilight imaginings, _this_ was entirely different. She stared at her feet. She couldn’t look at him, not when...

Not when he could see _everything_...

But he pushed his cane up underneath her chin and compelled her to meet his gaze.

“For your information,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “this isn’t something _I_ dream about either. And yet here we both are.”

He nudged her backwards. The chair forced her knees apart, forced her to bend her legs uncomfortably to keep her feet on the floor.

She wished he would hurry up.

He let his cane slide slowly down her throat, between her breasts, over her belly, and smiled at how her legs trembled with the strain of the position he was forcing her to hold.

It was a cruel smile, a cold smile, and it made her shiver as a sudden warmth spread through her body - but that had to be from the fire, of course, because she was only continuing with this out of curiosity.

And it was only curiosity that made her note the swish of his black velvet robes as he walked around the chair, or watch his black-gloved fingers close round her left wrist, or to be so aware of their touch as he pulled her arm around the back of the chair where she could no longer see. He held her wrist on the opposite side of the chair while some sort of soft cord wound itself round and around her forearm until it was tied firmly and horizontally across the back of the chair.

He’d tied it a bit too low down, so that she had to bend backwards slightly. It was a bit irritating, really...

He arranged her right arm two inches below her left, equally securely. Too securely, because by the time he’d finished her left arm was throbbing.

And she’d thought he’d known what he was doing! Didn’t he realise it was too tight?

Evidently not.

She nearly overbalanced when he lifted her ankle, lifted it against the back leg of the chair, lifted it above the level of the seat. And again the soft binding wound itself firmly around her limb, securing her lower leg to the chair with her knee just below the seat.

She could see the cord now, and... it wasn’t cord.

It was ribbon.

Velvet ribbon.

_Pink_ velvet ribbon.

Funny, she’d never really thought he was that type. Just went to show that you never could tell...

He bound her other ankle to the chair in the same way, so that no part of her was touching the floor. She was surprised that the ribbons bore her weight so... Well, it wasn’t _comfortable_ , exactly, but not exactly uncomfortable either. Except for that ever-increasing pain in her arms.

She glared at him desperately, willing him to see her.

To see her _face_ , that was.

“Ah,” he murmured, tracing a path with his finger down the inside of her arm. She twitched. “Does it hurt?”

She nodded, relieved.

“Good. It’s supposed to hurt.”

He really was a complete bastard. Even if his tone was so-

Never mind.

He brought his closed fist up level with her face, and opened his hand. Two tiny silver snakes circled each other on his palm. One raised its head and hissed at her, flicking its tongue between needle-sharp teeth.

“You first, then,” he said, nudging it off his hand.

She jerked backwards as the thing fell onto her shoulder. The chair wobbled alarmingly.

“Yes, you are rather top-heavy.” He peered down at her. “So I wouldn’t move about too much, if I were you.”

He held the side of his hand against her throat to allow the other snake to slide from his palm. Hermione held herself rigid as the two of them slithered around her neck. She could feel a cold silver tongue flickering over her skin as one snake raised its head to explore under her chin. She closed her mouth and eyes tight, but to her relief they both chose to go down.

She could see the first now, a three-inch-long monster slowly circling her left breast. The other was sliding down her spine, leaving a cold trail like another invisible bond.

And as one spiralled ever tighter, the other reached the bottom of her spine. And kept going.

Hermione bit her lip. The icy length of it spread along her nether lips, where each minute motion was amplified into blissful agony through which all she could feel was the cold that refused to be thawed by the heat it induced. And it was moving, moving, _moving_ , moving up to-

She threw her head back, staring at the ceiling in a rictus grin as that, that _thing_ drew itself oh-so-slowly and oh-so- _lightly_ over the place where its burning ice cut deepest and it was... it was... it was...

She whimpered silently.

He watched her with a sardonic smile.

And she looked down at the miniature snake, trembling, as it climbed towards her waist, trailing her own juices in the wake of its frosty passage. And then it was taking possession of her right breast, winding inwards while its twin formed a tight coil around a nipple that had stiffened to stone.

The newcomer hissed softly. Both heads lifted.

She threw herself back as their fangs sank into her nipples.

Lucius Malfoy’s hand on the chair was all that stopped it from tipping over, but she was barely aware of that as she strained against the ribbons, twisting in any way she could to try to loosen the creatures’ hideous hold. But they were as unwilling to move as she was unable to.

She didn’t want to look. It would be so much worse, so much more _real_ if she looked.

She looked.

Each of them was dangling, supported only by twin fangs. Which would explain why those points formed the centre of a silently screaming universe ruled only by pain.

She bit down on her lip to rescue her awareness from - _that_. Each breath she took shuddered.

“Very fetching,” Malfoy drawled. He was holding a length of wide ribbon - the pink velvet mocking the agony pulsing through her.

He tied the ribbon snugly around her neck and touched his wand to the knot. The free ends looped into a very elaborate bow. Not one loop, or two, but an effusive rosette like a ribbon on an Easter egg.

Her thoughts skittered and jumped like a needle on a scratched record. Did the Dark wizard have a side-line in flower arranging? It wasn’t the sort of spell she’d have expected from him.

And what would that make her? She must look ridiculous, with the overlarge bow wedged under her chin! She shook her head vigorously, but it was mere symbolic resistance and she knew it.

He laid a hand on her forehead and pushed her head back against the top of the chair. His other hand combed through her hair and every strand came alive, pulling and twisting and knotting through the iron whorls on the chair until she could barely move her head a millimetre. All she could do was stare at the ceiling with her body bent back and her breasts thrust upwards like a sacrifice to the goddess of pink.

Something long and rigid pressed between her legs. That cane of his, she guessed, and he was levering it hard up against her, making her lift her hips so that her spine was forced into an even tighter curve. He leaned forwards so that their eyes met.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m going to do now?”

Of course she was! What a _stupid_ question!

“I’m going to leave you here, Miss Granger.” He pulled the cane away. “You didn’t really think I wanted to touch you?”

He turned on his heel and vanished.

Hermione blinked. The Room seemed suddenly a lot darker.

She’d _die_ if she ever came face to face with the real Lucius Malfoy. Thank God he was safely locked away in Azkaban.

Just as she was locked away here...

But no. Surely the hour must be up by now? Yet here she was, as unable to move as when Snape had spread her across the bed.

On the whole, the bed had been rather more comfortable.

Though actually, the discomfort seemed to be fading. It wasn’t that she was distracting herself from the agony throbbing in her bound arms, piercing her nipples and burning across her back - there was really less pain to distract herself from.

Was the Room of Requirement meeting her requirement for pain relief? She didn’t think it worked that way - and besides, she hardly thought that several metres of pink velvet ribbon were a vital requirement.

So maybe the potion was wearing off - but why would dream-pain be worse than real pain?

_She’d give Fred and George ‘an hour of pure pleasure’..._

And if the potion really had worn off, why was she still bound?

And if she was still bound, how on earth was she going to get out of here? How likely was it that someone would pace up and down this corridor saying, ‘I want to find Hermione Granger?’ Or that the Room would open to them if they did? And when it came down to it, was there _anyone_ that she would want to walk through that door and see her like this?

But she couldn’t think about that - the potion might not have worn off. And there was something... not entirely unpleasant... about waiting, knowing how exposed she was, knowing she could do nothing about it, knowing all she could do was wait: a long vigil knowing that she herself was the offering at the end.

What was she waiting for? Someone to make her burn with mingled lust and humiliation, or someone to kiss it all better?

Or no one at all?

 

Something moved behind her: the waiting was over.

With her head bound to look straight up at the ceiling, she only caught glimpses of the black-robed, hooded figure. But she could hear his muffled footsteps as he circled her.

Yes, _waiting_ had definitely had its good points...

And what was it about Death Eaters? Would she have to work her way through every single one of them before she could get out of here? It wasn’t fair. She did _not_ fantasise about Death Eaters.

Well, not Death Eaters in the generic.

She held her breath as the other exhaled behind her, prickling the nape of her neck. Warm hands reached around to cradle her breasts, hands that seemed designed to fit, hands with nails that married seductive scratch to arousing caress.

_Woman’s_ hands?

Not Bellatrix Lestrange!

This was well beyond a joke. If she ever got out of here she’d personally make sure that no Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products ever made it within ten miles of Hogwarts.

But meanwhile...

Those dual-natured fingertips were sliding down her skin, roaming over her waist, hips, thighs, up between her legs...

Definitely woman’s hands. No man could find that particular place so... _aaaah..._ unerringly.

Hermione groaned.

She received a pinch in reply, a pinch and the sudden absence of contact. Until two sharp tugs at the twin silver snakes made them writhe and thrash, her tender nipples magnifying each jolt a hundredfold. But it wasn’t painful now, indeed _not_ : shimmering waves of bliss rolled through her with every tiny motion.

And one of those hands stroked under her chin, and she wished she could purr like Crookshanks.

As it was, she did a creditable imitation.

Then two fingers slipped between the velvet collar and her neck, pulling slightly so that every square millimetre of skin tingled with the contact.

_“Mmmm.”_

Was that her, or the other? Did she care, embraced as she was by these bonds of velvet steel and those bewitching hands and this scent of summer mead _ooooh..._

The woman’s fingers were _inside_ her... and... and... could this really be Sirius’ insane cousin?

Did she care?

Yes, she definitely did care. But still...

The fingers slid out, and _in_ , and out, and in again, and Hermione could start to see the attraction of joining the Death Eaters if this was the sort of thing they... Well, provided they would untie her eventually.

(Or maybe even if they wouldn’t.)

And she found that she could move her hips, and no matter that it was the only motion allowed her because it meant that she could press against the hand whose touch was so maddeningly gentle, that she could strain on her bonds for support as she rocked, and, _oooh_ , shudder as the thumb brushed over-

She moaned. But her tormentress lifted her hand away.

“Shhhh.” She spread her fingers across Hermione’s belly. Hermione stilled.

They stayed like that for a moment, a minute, the passage of time marked only by the black-robed woman’s breathing, her exhalations hissing past Hermione’s neck, so close and so out of reach...

And her hand moved again, and Hermione bit her lip to stop any sound escaping as one finger reached its destination... that place where the two of them were linked by pure sweet sensation, a bond as inescapable as those holding her arms and her legs and her head.

She moved to meet it, to test it. Again the other’s hand left her. This time there was no compensating touch elsewhere.

Hermione closed her eyes, willed herself to stone, her need forcing obedience a hundred times deeper than cold steel or burning lash.

_“Please...”_

“Mmmm?”

But while the other’s voice teased, her fingers answered.

_Oooooh..._ Hermione was so tender now that it was all she could do not to pull away... or push forward... _Please..._ She grit her teeth, fighting to cede control... and control was taken from her, swept away and drowned in a rising tide of agonising ecstasy... _oh please... please... oh please... oh..._

And everything exploded into howling need and sweet-sharp shards of pain and bliss and, and...

She shook as it subsided, as the pieces fell back into something resembling herself.

The woman’s hand was resting on her leg now, her other arm reaching forward to curl round her waist.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”

Her eyes snapped open. _“Ginny?”_

There was a giggle as the other leaned forward, brushing Hermione’s cheek with her hair, nibbling along her jaw, tugging at her lips... and just as Hermione realised her mouth was open, the other’s tongue was probing inside and Hermione responded, thrusting her own tongue upwards to truly meet Ginny for the first time...

Well, she had to show her gratitude - it was only polite. But women didn’t really do it for her.

Even if she was, at that moment, being snogged by Ginny Weasley as she’d never been snogged by anyone in her life before. But that didn’t count, did it?

Ginny’s hands cradled Hermione’s breasts.

It may not count, but it certainly wasn’t anything to complain about. Except for one little thing...

“Er, Ginny?” she started, as the other came up for air.

“Mmmm?”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider untying me?”

Ginny stroked Hermione’s feet, ran her hands up her ribbon-bound legs from ankle to knee, caressed her naked inner thighs. “Don’t you like it?”

Well, if she put it that way...

“ _I_ like it,” said Ginny. “Though perhaps the chains suited your skin tone better. Especially after Snape-”

“You were _watching_?”

“Of course I was watching!” Her hands slid breastward again, and squeezed, and it _almost_ hurt... She bent her head close to Hermione’s ear. “But you haven’t told me what you think. Aren’t you going to thank me for your present?”

“I could thank you a lot better if you untied me,” Hermione muttered.

“But maybe I’d rather you thanked me by staying precisely where you are...” Ginny bit down on Hermione’s earlobe, making the older girl gasp.

“I don’t seem to have much choice about that, do I?” And strangely, she found the thought... not entirely unpleasant - even without that insidious potion. Which reminded her: “Just so long as you don’t have any more _Elixir of Ecstasy_ to hand.”

“You didn’t like it?” asked Ginny. “Or is that your way of saying that what you really want is more?” She lowered her voice to a murmur, brushing her fingers over one of the silver snakes. “You certainly seemed to be enjoying the last dose.”

“It had its moments,” said Hermione ruefully. “But I think Fred and George might need to do some more work on it - it’s not exactly what I’d have described as ‘an hour of pure pleasure’.”

Ginny laughed. “Oh Hermione,” she said. “Whatever made you think this was _your_ fantasy?” 


End file.
